𝗣𝗟𝗢𝗧𝗧𝗘𝗗 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗘𝗥 ; @hearttape
sebastian just needs to get out of here or he’ll suffocate. leave as soon as possible. take a breath of fresh air. and everything will be alright again. there are way too many people in the house, most of whom he doesn’t recognize. do they recognize him? he doubts that, but they must have known his brother since they keep patting him on the back or squeezing his hands, telling him how deeply sorry they are about his loss. not that their apparent grief keeps them from getting shit-faced in his backyard or making out in his bathrooms. i’m so sorry. my deepest condolences. if he hears that stupid line one more time, his head will explode. and just like that, all the sudden, his lungs seem incapable of expanding and filling up with oxygen. he’s a stranger at his own party, in his own house, his own body, too. he doesn’t even try to excuse himself, just turns his back on his guests and walks right out, not caring at all if anyone notices his absence. he used to like parties, he still does like parties, he reminds himself, all but this particular one.
he doesn’t remember slipping behind the property gates, neither does he remember heading to the beach but he somehow finds himself there, taking a hit from his joint and staring, blank-faced, at the waves. the ocean always seems to be calling his name. he wonders briefly whether it had ever spoken to his late brother in that kind of way. does some part of alex’s soul belong to the ocean now? if he spoke up, would his brother hear him? oh, who the fuck cares? he looks up, the end of his joint burning brightly as he inhales, the stars above are twinkling so prettily. in the distance, the santa monica pier looks more like a mirage. an island of light suspended above the dark pacific. the ferris wheel spins slowly, so impossibly tall, each rotation sending a new wave of color across the sky.
